


A Place Where You'll Be Safe

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 07:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14564508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: He didn’t know where he was going. It wasn’t even a conscious thought. It was an out of body experience, when he just stood up from his sofa, left his apartment, got on his bike and started driving.





	A Place Where You'll Be Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Based heavily on ‘Leave A Light On’ by Tom Walker. Also you could replace Dick with myself in this whole thing and it’d be an accurate representation of my life and brain and current standings haha. I wrote this basically as a cathartic/therapeutic piece for myself. Sorry if it’s weird haha. **Warning for mentions of suicidal-ish thoughts.**

He was lost. That’s the only way he could describe it. Lost, defeated, tired. Wanting desperately, _desperately_ , to give up.

Nightwing was failing. Dick Grayson was failing. He was alone. He couldn’t save a kitten if he wanted to at this point. Or a bug. Couldn’t save a relationship, couldn’t continue friendships.

Everything was just so… _hard_.

Bruce never struggled like this. Donna never did. Why did everyone have it together but him?

He hadn’t eaten since the day before yesterday. He was pretty sure that last knife wound he got was getting infected. When had he slept? Did sleep even exist?

He was just. So. _Tired_.

He didn’t know where he was going. It wasn’t even a conscious thought. It was an out of body experience, when he just stood up from his sofa, left his apartment, got on his bike and started driving.

And maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Because his mind kept wandering. Kept saying: _just go ahead and hit that tree. Don’t use your breaks. See how tough that guardrail on the bridge is. Go really fly, just like your parents. Drive your bike off that bridge, fly across that water._

And maybe that was the scariest part, these thoughts. He thought he’d controlled them. Thought he’d tricked himself into not having them. Never really thought of himself as the type to have them in the first place.

Because he didn’t want to die. He didn’t think so, anyway. He wanted to live. He had _reasons_ to live.

But it’d just be so _easy_ to…

He shook his head, found his bike swerving and corrected it. Found tears in his eyes, and they fell before he could do anything about them.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

Probably because he was tired.

Tired of having expectations. Tired of not living up to them. Tired of the change, how constant it was. Tired of not having any sort of normalcy, any sort of daily habit – he didn’t even have the same cereal every day, or the same brand of milk.

He was just done. Spent. Running on empty.

And he just didn’t know why he was crying. He didn’t know where he was _fucking going._

And when did it start raining!

Water splashed against his helmet, and the puddles he splashed through drenched his knees. Great. Just fucking _great_.

Thanks for the welcome home, Gotham.

…Since when was he heading towards Gotham City?

He couldn’t say he was surprised, though. Gotham was the beginning for him, and always seemed to be the end. He could never stay away, even when there was nothing there.

He also couldn’t be surprised, when his bike stalled at a red light downtown. When he pulled it to the side and found he was completely out of gas. Because of course he was. Because that was Murphy’s Law, or Newton’s Law, or some old guy’s law. If something can go wrong, it absolutely fucking will.

Luckily, he wasn’t far from Wayne Tower, so just pushed the bike there. Ignored the car honks and sarcastic catcalls. Wasn’t in the mood to deal with them. But even when he pulled into the garage, and his bike was secure, he didn’t feel at ease.

Because he still didn’t know where he was going, but he knew it wasn’t here. It wasn’t the warmth and safety of his old, temporary home. Hell, Bruce kept these places stocked, and there was even a tank of gas in the corner he could easily use to continue his wayward journey.

But.

His stomach churned, and he was restless. He still didn’t know what he was doing, where he was going, what he _needed_ – but this wasn’t it. This was not it at all.

So he turned up the collar of his jacket, shoved his hands in his pocket and left the tower’s garage, heading back into the pouring rain.

Less catcalls this time, since he stuck to the shadows, and suspect alleys. He felt the phone in his back pocket buzz, but ignored it. And wasn’t that funny? He was lonely, but didn’t want to deal with people right now.

God, his brain sucked.

He let himself zone out again as he moved along the streets. Think about his failures and shortcomings. About how easy it would be to step out onto the busy Gotham streets. About all his losses. His parents, his siblings, his loves.

Himself?

He didn’t know. Who was Nightwing? Who was Dick Grayson? Who _cared_?

He just wanted to stop. He wanted everything to _stop_.

And after a minute – he realized it did.

He looked up – he wasn’t in Gotham anymore. He wasn’t on a city street. He was on a tree-lined lane, the storm winds whipping through the leaves. He could barely see the road below him, in front of him, behind him. He was in a void. Any normal person would be lost.

But then – up ahead. A golden yellow in the blueish black. Just a little bit, a little square, on a tiny incline.

He felt those tears again, mixing with the rain. Felt his feet start moving once more, maybe even a little faster, a little more focused.

 _Get to the light_ , he told himself. Just get to that light, and maybe everything will be okay. Maybe his soul will stop hurting.

Because there were tons of properties in the hills around Gotham City. He could have been at any of them. At any of the lavish palaces of Gotham’s elite.

But he knew this was the only one that mattered.

Still, he hung his head as he walked. Couldn’t look at that light even as he moved towards it. Wondered why there was only one light on, not multiple. But the occupants were probably out of town – they always were after all – and the one light was just a precaution, or a trick to the public. That it wasn’t a dusty, empty house, that a big happy, normal family lived there.

The closer he moved, the more that tiny flicker of hope in his chest fell. Because – yeah, no one was there. No one was ever there. That house, this city – all just symbols. There was no substance, no matter how much he prayed for there to be.

But better the house than the tower. Because at the tower he could jump. At the manor he could fall from the roof, sure, but it wouldn’t kill him. A few broken bones at most, or a concussion. At the tower he could climb and climb and ‘accidentally’ fall. And there was no coming back from the drop off a skyscraper.

And there were those thoughts again. Those thoughts that only came on the darkest of nights for him. Those thoughts he didn’t _want_ , and never had. But there they were. And it’d just be so _easy_ to-

“Grayson?”

He jumped out of his skin, almost screamed as his head shot up. And – oh. He wasn’t on the lane anymore, coming towards the light. He was _at_ the light.

And the light wasn’t a window like he thought, and it wasn’t just one. No, there were lights on throughout the house, soft and warm. Too dim to be seen from that distance, or through the storm.

The light he followed, that beacon…it was the front door. It was light coming through an open front door. Where people stood, apparently waiting. Apparently for a while.

For…him?

“Grayson.” It was repeated, and he twitched again, looked away from the silhouettes in the doorway, to the one dashing down the front steps and coming towards him.

Damian.

His hair was plastered to his face, his clothes – sweatpants and a thin t-shirt, definitely pajamas – were soaked through, like he’d been standing in the rain for at least an hour or more. Dick glanced back towards the house, and on the middle of the steps was a set of dry footprints, side by side, quickly disappearing in the rain.

“Damian…?” He murmured, and suddenly his mind switched. Why was Damian outside? He needed to change his clothes, he was going to get sick, he could end up in the hospital, he could _die_ -

“Grayson, are you alright?” Damian asked instead, bypassing Dick’s suddenly reaching hands, to tug on his jacket. “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened…?” Dick looked back up to the house. He could recognize the silhouettes in the doorway now. Bruce, holding a mug, also in sweats and slippers. There was a closed umbrella beside him, probably for Damian, and probably spurned. Alfred stood behind him, a cart with a steaming carafe and mugs nearby. “What do you…?”

“We saw your GPS moving quickly, got alerts on some of your vitals.” Bruce called from the doorway, even as Damian felt Dick over for injuries. “We’ve been trying to contact you since you got into Gotham limits. Calls, texts…you weren’t answering.”

“I…” Dick tried, staring down at Damian, who was continuing his examination. Then back to Bruce, and his voice was shakier. “I-I…”

His heart hurt, and he didn’t know _why_. He didn’t know _anything_. Why was he upset? Why was he feeling this way? Why’d he come to this house? Hell, how’d he _get_ to this house? He was on his bike. He walked. He…

 _What happened?_ They asked.

 _What the fuck happened?!_ He asked himself.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything.

Not a goddamned thing.

“Grayson…” Another zone out, apparently. Another jerk to refocus on the little brother in his arms, who was now staring up at him with big sad eyes. He felt himself hiccup a gasp, and – oh. He was crying. Again. He was crying in front of Damian, and being pitied. But before he could dwell on it, before he could chastise himself or try to get away, Damian leaned forward and hugged him. Held him as though he was the child, and Damian the adult. “It’s okay, Grayson. You’re alright.”

And he wasn’t. He so terribly, terribly _wasn’t_. But the feeling of Damian’s tiny arms wrapped around his torso broke whatever dam was inside him. Because suddenly he was sobbing. Suddenly he was gasping out a wail and dropping to his knees. Suddenly he was clinging to Damian’s back and hiding his face in his neck.

“You’re alright.” Damian repeated quietly, rubbing at Dick’s spine. “I’ve got you, you’re safe.”

Was he? Was he safe? What did he need to be safe _from_?

But…Damian wasn’t wrong. Now that that dam was open, and the tears were flowing, his soul was starting to loosen. He was still confused, he still didn’t understand why he felt this way or what triggered it, or what, exactly, brought him here to ease it, but he suddenly felt like he could breathe again. Like he was _allowed_ to breathe again. And when did that feeling come in? When did that breathlessness take roots in his lungs?

He supposed it didn’t matter, in the end. Or at least, not right now, as he found a vague, relieving comfort while cocooned in Damian’s arms.

Without warning, the rain pelting his and his brother’s backs stopped, replaced with only the sharp wind cooling the water against their skin. He glanced up, and found Bruce standing over them, holding that umbrella.

“Let’s get you inside, son.” Bruce hummed gently. Dick sniffed, swallowed the lump in his throat, and reluctantly let Damian pull away.

When he stood, Damian immediately leaned into his side, kept one arm around his waist. Bruce reached out too, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, tugging him softly towards the door.

Dick could only rub his sleeve across his nose, and childishly rub his fist against his eyes.

“I’m just so tired, Bruce.” He whispered, almost like an apology.

Bruce just nodded knowingly, and squeezed his shoulder.

“Happens to the best of us.” He promised as they reached the door. And in a mockery of Damian: “Don’t worry, Dick. We’ve got you. You can rest now.”

As they crossed the threshold, Bruce released him to deal with the umbrella. Damian didn’t let go, though, practically rushing him to the parlor, and pushing him onto the sofa, grabbing a blanket and fluttering it over the both of them.

“Go to sleep, Grayson.” Damian ordered, but softly, kindly, even as Dick found himself tucking his brother into his side. Satisfying the quietly desperate need to hold him, to make sure he was alive and in one piece. “I’ll take care of you.”

And for once, Dick obeyed. Closed his eyes and listened as his heartbeat slowly calmed.

He was lost. He felt so, so, _so_ lost.

But here, with his brother, with Bruce and Alfred coming into the room with warm drinks and dry clothes, in this house with the light that was his beacon for a semblance of hope.

Maybe he wasn’t as lost as he thought he was.


End file.
